


The Tender Things That We Were Working On

by Pants (Smarty_Pants)



Series: Sincerely Yours, The Breakfast Club [2]
Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alexis is the princess, Alternate Universe - The Breakfast Club Fusion, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Breakfast Club AU, Breakfast Club References, David is the basket case, Don't you forget about me, F/F, F/M, Hints at threesome, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Patrick is the athlete, Stevie doesn't help, Stevie is the criminal, Stevie never helps, Ted is the brain, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24371203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smarty_Pants/pseuds/Pants
Summary: The Breakfast Club AU that was prompted but didn't get done in time for the Reel Schitt's Creek Prompt Fest! And probably no one is really waiting for...but here it is.Those interested in the movie might want to read the related fic where these five go see it and try to figure out which character they would be.
Relationships: Alexis Rose & David Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose, Stevie Budd/Alexis Rose, Theodore "Ted" Mullens/Alexis Rose
Series: Sincerely Yours, The Breakfast Club [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759621
Comments: 13
Kudos: 48





	1. Won’t You Come See About Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sullymygoodname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullymygoodname/gifts).



> Thank you to [sullymygoodname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sullymygoodname/pseuds/8jodaiko) for your prompt. I hope that this belated gift is something you enjoy!
> 
> There are not sufficient thanks in the world for my fabulous beta, [8jodaiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8jodaiko/pseuds/8jodaiko), who has infinite patience for my whining and excellent suggestions always.

Saturday, March 7, 2020

Schitt’s Creek High School, Schitt’s Creek

Dear Mr. Schitt:

We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was that we did wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make us write this essay telling you who we think we are.

What do you care? You see us as you want to see us, in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions. You see us as a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal.

Correct? That’s the way we saw each other at seven o’clock this morning. 

We were brainwashed...

**The Princess**

Alexis-Klair is in her daddy’s Tesla, smoothing down her Trina Turk front-zip suede mini skirt and looking out the window. Semi-bored as is her usual state, she watches a couple other teenagers get out of their parents’ cars and slouch their way towards the high school. Usually bustling with hormonal adolescents, the building sits quiet and empty on this weekend morning.

“Ugh! I can’t believe you can’t get me out of this,” Alexis-Klair emotes in her whiniest voice. “It’s absurd that I have to be here on a Saturday. There was just a very exclusive sample size dress sale and...well I’m sorry for not going to like one class, da-ad! It’s not like I’m the worst or something.”

Johnny Rose reaches out to his daughter’s face and gently boops her on her perfect nose.

“Oh, honey. I’ll make it up to you,” he says in a tired but loving voice. “Ditching class to go shopping doesn’t make you the worst. You’re not the worst.” He begins to sing off-key the song that has been their private joke since she was a little girl. “You— You’re simply the best; you’re better than all the rest...” 

Alexis-Klair just rolls her eyes. Johnny tries to lean over to embrace her but his body is stopped suddenly by the unyielding pull of the seatbelt. “Ew, da-ad. _What_ are you doing?” she asks, making a face.

“I’m trying to give you a hug goodbye,” he replies, his body again lurching against the belt.

“I get the gesture,” she says snottily, still annoyed that all the Roses’ money couldn’t spring her from Saturday detention. “Let’s just leave it at a gesture.”

And with that she pulls on the handle and glides out the door, not listening to her father call out “Have a good day!” as she walks herself up to the school building in really nice shoes.

**The Brain**

Theodore fidgets with the inseam of his jeans as his mother continues the never-ending tirade that has been going on the whole car ride over to the school.

“Is this the first time or last time we do this?” she asks him sharply.

“Last...” he responds in a small voice.

“Well, you had better use that time to your advantage.”

“But we’re not supposed to study,” he insists, knowing that given the slightest opportunity he is already planning to sneak looks at his personal copy of _Integrated Principles of Zoology, Seventeenth Edition,_ a college-level text that he’s read so many times the binding is falling apart. 

“We just have to sit there and do nothing,” he tells her. The thought of nothingness stretching to encompass the whole day is honestly just as alarming to Theodore as it is to his mom. He touches his backpack where he knows he has several biology books squirrelled away and feels calmer. _Ha_ , he thinks, _squirrelled._

Cheryl Mullens’s voice pulls him back to reality. “Well, mister. You’d better figure out a way to study. And by study, I do NOT mean look at pictures of animals. I mean Calculus. Physics. Prep for your AP Tests. Something that will get you into MIT’s engineering program.”

Theodore swallows and considers apologizing to his hard-working single mother for having to bring him to detention, for all the many ways he seems to be the wrong son, always causing her some great disappointment. Even though he’s a strong student with top grades in all his classes, he doesn’t seem to be whatever it is she wants him to be. Most days, he hates himself. But honestly, being a teenager, on alternate days he just hates her.

He opens his mouth to speak but stops. The only words that come into his mind are animal puns and that is something he knows she will not appreciate. ‘I didn’t do it on _porpoise_ ,’ is something he definitely does not say. Nor does he apologize for his _crabby_ mood or being _shellfish_. Instead, he opens the car door and slips his slight frame out, backpack slung over his bony shoulder.

“Oh yeah? Just look at all the _fox_ I give,” he mumbles, ultimately unable to help himself. And then, emboldened, to her: “ _Owl_ be home later!” 

He hears his mother hollering, “The-o-dore James Mull-ens! What did you s—” as he slams the door and shuffles his well-worn sneakers toward the school’s front door.

**The Athlete**

Clint Brewer stops the company truck in the school parking lot with his son Patrick beside him in the passenger seat. Clint’s a big solid guy, a man who works with his hands, with a permanent grin on his face. Patrick is smaller than his dad, but still compact and muscled. He looks serious, older than his years. His teenaged brow is furrowed and there’s clearly something weighing on him. 

“Hey,” Clint says, not unkindly. “Look, Pat, I goofed around. Guys— they goof around. There’s nothing wrong with that. Except you got caught, Sport.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Mom already read me the riot act,” he says. Marcy Brewer’s words were still ringing in his ears. _Oh Patrick, what did you do? Whatever happened to my sweet boy..._

“You wanna miss a baseball game? You wanna blow your ride? No school’s gonna give a scholarship to a discipline case.” Patrick says nothing, just nods his head. Clint continues. 

“Don’t be— Just— don’t do anything different right now. You know, something that would make your mom look at you differently. Just be our good old Pat, the same str— err, strong, smart young man you’ve always been. That’s the way you survive high school, son. And that’s the way you get through life. Don’t let time change you. And don’t try to change time.” Patrick gives his dad a sideways glance, checking to see if he heard what he thought he heard. He’s a bit stunned and does not say a word. 

Feeling that he has imparted his very best life advice and oblivious as to how it landed, Clint smiles at his boy. 

“Now, go get ‘em tiger.”

Patrick exits the car, gym bag slung over his shoulder and a large paper shopping bag rolled up under his arm. He doesn’t look back at the truck as he makes a beeline for the school.

**The Basket Case**

As Patrick saunters up to the doors of Schitt’s Creek High, he sees a tall and lithe figure out of the corner of his eye. Not exactly realizing what he is doing or why, he slows his gait until they are walking side by side up the small set of steps that leads to the front door.

It’s that new guy he’s seen a few times in the halls at school— Patrick doesn’t know him. And it’s not that he’s really noticed him. Not at all. But, if he had noticed, he would have seen that this guy is different. He holds himself like he’s older than his years, more mature than the rest of them—but, well no that’s not exactly it. That could just be the clothes, which are clearly expensive, in varying shades of lighter black and darker black. But he does look wise, toughened up, and yet his face reveals almost a sweetness or naiveté. The combination is compelling. Very. His name might be Dan- no, _David_...it’s definitely David, not that Patrick has met him. Or really noticed him.

Or, okay, he noticed. But just because Patrick has made note of David, the intriguing new kid, it doesn’t mean anything. He couldn’t really miss someone who was that visually arresting— stunning really. Anyone would notice David. With his all-black designer wardrobe and a hint of black eyeliner, he’s not quite a goth, not quite a fashionista, not quite a burnout. David’s definitely not a jock like Patrick nor is he in any of his classes. Still, Patrick remembers exactly the first day he saw him at school in the hallway about a month ago. He doesn’t choose to think too hard about why that memory is so strong.

They reach the heavy glass door at the same time and Patrick pulls it open, glancing sideways at David. 

“After you.” 

David goes hesitantly and carefully through the door, as if he might at any moment decide to turn and run in the other direction.

“Oh. Uh thanks,” he says, breathily, giving Patrick his own side glance as he enters. 

Patrick, surprising himself, beams.

**The Criminal**

Stevie Budd has detention again. Big fucking deal. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care about shit, and if she did, that just wouldn’t be the shit she cared about, okay?

Stevie hops off her motorcycle, removes her hot pink helmet and shakes out her long silky brown hair. Her black leather jacket hugs her petite frame just like her faded blue jeans and clingy white t-shirt. She clomps up to the school entrance in her serious shit-kicking boots. Her expression makes it pretty clear that no one better mess with her now or ever.

None of this scene is new for her. Gathering with a group of losers on a Saturday morning to count down minutes on the ticking clock has become second nature. Stevie holds the school record for most Saturdays in captivity, largely because the teacher, Roland Schitt has it out for her.

“Hello, you fucking school,” she growls at the institution, adding, “You haven’t broken me yet, asshole.”


	2. I’ll Be Alone, Dancing. You Know It, Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took about a month longer than expected but I'm hoping the remaining chapters will be coming a little faster than that. Don't you forget about me: Ugh. It's a little TOO on the nose.

The teens settle into the library at six study tables set up in two rows of three. Alexis-Klair sits at the front table, Theodore behind her. Patrick settles into the chair to her left and she gives him her patented double-eye wink and then, looking over his muscular athletic form, an appreciative shoulder shimmy.

Stevie stomps in with her clompy boots, giving Alexis-Klair a once-over, then doing the same to both Patrick and Theodore. She locks eyes with Theodore and indicates with a head nod that he should scoot to a different table. He does so immediately (Stevie is _terrifying_ ), and she settles in behind Alexis-Klair, leaning back in her chair with her boots up on the table. David silently glides past at the edge of the scene, making no eye contact as he sits at the far back table, setting his black messenger bag next to him. It’s as if he is alone in an empty room. Or he isn’t really there at all.

Patrick twists in his seat to try to see behind him but David does not look up and eventually he returns his gaze to the front. Alexis-Klair also turns to briefly side eye David and then, getting no reaction, looks to catch Patrick’s eye. He’s cute, clean-cut, popular. She knows him enough to say hi, but their circles of friends usually only cross at big parties. She flips her blonde tresses and gives him a flirty look that in her experience has never once failed to catch the attention of any guy who is not in a new relationship or gay.

Patrick stares back at her, his expression blank.

There is an uneasy quiet as a few minutes tick by and the five of them sit listening to each other breathe and the light gurgling of a fish tank inexplicably taking up space in the center of the library. No one speaks.

Just when it feels like someone—likely Stevie or Alexis-Klair—is going to break the silence, the door to the library opens and an unkempt-looking man shuffles his way into the room. His blondish mullet and shaggy beard come across as very unprofessional in a school setting, as does his ratty flannel shirt with a novelty Elvis tie and baseball cap. He addresses the kids as if he owns them.

“Well, well. I want to congratulate you for being on time. Bunch of delinquents. If you don’t already know it, I’m Roland Schitt, one of the most beloved teachers at this school and the person in charge of your time in detention today. So, that’s right, if you’re looking for an ass to kiss, it’s mine.” He pats his belly and looks around, expecting appreciative laughter but instead encountering shocked and/or belligerent stares. David examines his cuticles.

“Hey, look kids. I’m just messing with you,” he says, laughing, as if that erases the utter impropriety of his statement.

Alexis-Klair’s hand shoots up in the air.

“Excuse me, sir? I think there’s been a mistake. I know it’s detention but . . . um . . .I don’t think I belong in _here_. . .” She flops her wrists around to indicate the others in the room. Her eyes are wide and innocent as she smiles at the teacher, like a girl who is used to being listened to, used to getting her own way. “I just mean—as our school’s head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and chair of the prom committee, I really think there might be some other place I could spend the day.”

Roland ignores the interruption and continues his speech: “It is now 7:06. You have exactly eight hours and 54 minutes to think about why you are here. To ponder the error of your ways…”

Stevie lets out a snort, uncrosses her legs and drops her feet to the floor. She places her elbows on the table and leans forward, as if she’s hanging on every single word. _Here it is_ , she thinks. _Let’s go, Schittbag._

“And,” he continues, giving Stevie a pointed look, “you are to deposit your electronics in this box and you will not get them back until the end of the day. You may not talk. You will not move from these seats. And you will not sleep.”

Roland passes around a cardboard box and one by one the kids let go of their prized smartphones, tablets, and laptops. He snaps his fingers in front of David’s face to get his attention and the young man slowly unzips his black bag, pulls out a sleek laptop and deposits it in the box with absolutely no expression.

“All right, people. We’re going to try something a little different today. We are going to write an essay—using paper and pencil, _so no Miss Rose, you will not be getting your iPad back_ —an essay of no less than 1,000 words describing to me who you think you are.” Roland chuckles and hands out a single piece of notebook paper and a worn-down pencil to each student. David does not touch his and so the teacher places it on the table in front of him.

“Is this a test?” Stevie asks in her most innocent tone. Schitt ignores her. They’ve played this game before.

“When I say essay, I mean _es_ - _say_. I do not mean a single word repeated a thousand times. Is that clear, Miss Budd?”

“Crystal,” she responds tartly. _Fucker_.

“Good. Maybe you’ll all learn something about yourself through this process. You may even decide whether you care to return.”

“You know, I can answer that right now, sir,” says Theodore shakily. “That’d be no. No for me.”

Theodore looks over at the large fish-filled aquarium which sits as a central focal point in the library. His emotions have been pinging around—from shame over having detention—to abject fear of it affecting his grades and his chance to get into college—to a kind of wild recklessness he gets when he just doesn’t care anymore. He watches the painted tetra fish in the tank swim around in tight, trapped circles as his own thoughts swirl and spiral in circles in his brain. He lands on a familiar feeling that everything that grownups—parents, teachers—say and do is all just one very, very bad joke.

Something bubbles up in this chest—it’s like a laugh or gasp or cry.

Suddenly he’s standing and facing Mr. Schitt, arms reaching wide in the direction of the aquarium. Roland sends him a glare and starts to speak, “Sit—"

“In fact, Mr. Schitt, I’m not _fishing_ for answers but I hope you would let _minnow_ what I can do to never have to come back,” Theodore says, starting to smile. 

“Sit down, Mullens,” Mr. Schitt barks at him. “Stop doing that.”

“Oh sure. Sorry sir. But… _tank_ you. I promise to stop now that I’ve been _schooled_.” The fear and shame have disappeared; he’s talking fast and feeling better.

“I’m warning you. I know what you are doing. No more word play.”

“Uh huh uh huh. Got it. So…you’d like me to _scale_ back on the fish puns. You’re saying you don’t want to be _herring_ any more of them…”

Alexis-Klair lets out surprised giggle-snort and clamps her manicured hand over her own mouth. Theodore grins, looks over at her with gratitude. Of course he’d recognized the queen bee of Schitt’s Creek High immediately when they all sat down. But before today Alexis-Klair Rose had never looked at him twice.

Now though she smiles a sweeter, shyer smile than the one she had tried out on Patrick. This earns her a deep glare from Mr. Schitt.

“My office is right across that hall,” Roland says, pointing at the door. “Any monkey business is ill-advised. Any questions?”

Theodore’s eyes light up as he opens his mouth to make a simian-based reference but Alexis-Klair shakes her head ever so slightly at him and his mouth closes with a pop. For some reason, she seems to care what he does. And for some reason, he cares that she cares. Stevie, intently watching the interaction between her two fellow detainees, speaks up.

“Yeah, I got a question,” she huffs at Schitt. “Does Joe Exotic know that you raid his wardrobe?”

“I’ll give you the answer to that question, Stevie Budd… _next_ Saturday.” She rolls her eyes and he takes a step closer to her, getting in her face. “Don’t mess with the bull, little missy. You’ll get the horns.” He holds up his index and pinky fingers in a specific horns hand gesture. Stevie mirrors the gesture and they lock eyes, like two dominant bovines confronting one another.

Roland backs out of the room and when he finally turns and exits through the door, Stevie’s hand gesture morphs into a single middle finger salute as she spits out a “fuck you” at the same time Theodore mutters to himself, “mister _bull schitt_ . . . don’t have a _cow_.”

Stevie looks at him sharply, then at Alexis-Klair. They both seem a bit terrified to be regarded so closely by Stevie and everyone simply stares for a beat. Then Stevie smiles a big grin and lets out a huge laugh.

And then all three of them do.

***

The kids are bored, so bored, so _very_ bored without their phones to distract them. They aren’t supposed to talk to each other or even look at each other but they are so bored. And starting to fall asleep. And bored. It’s only 8:25 a.m.

The four in front are mostly looking forlornly at their blank papers, faces propped up in their hands, elbows resting on tables, and zoning out. Stevie uses the pencil to pick small rocks out of the grooves in the bottom of her boots. Theodore chews on his pencil like a gopher. Alexis-Klair and Patrick both keep nodding off, pencils dropping from their hands to the table.

In the back, David sits in his seat with his spine rod-straight. He opens his bag and removes a massive leather-bound journal and a small wooden case. At the sound of the case clunking on the table, the others perk up and turn in their seats to watch him. He runs his fingertips over the embossed leather cover and smooths open the pages of rough handmade paper. He clicks the latches on the wooden case and reveals what is inside: an elaborate calligraphy set, including a wooden dip pen, antique holder, at least 10 nibs and 4 ink bottles. David lines up the bottles in front of him in what seems to be a very specific order. Next, he chooses one of the pen nibs and fastens it to the wooden pen base. He opens the far left bottle and dips the pen in the black ink to just above the middle hold in the nib, giving it a firm shake to expel excess ink which splatters a bit onto the sheet of looseleaf paper, which he then carefully places to the side, lined up to the exact edge of the table. David holds the pen lightly and surely as he exerts a gentle pressure on the thick handmade paper of the journal, swirling the pen nib to render a single first word, clearly creating calligraphic art of some sort as much as writing.

He might just be beginning to write his essay but if that _is_ what he’s doing—it’s in the most complicated, convoluted, time-consuming way possible.

The others observe this ritual, unable to see exactly what David is creating, but watching his graceful hands move nonetheless. Patrick, noticing how David’s fingers are careful and purposeful in their task, finds himself wondering what else David’s hands can do—when else they’d take such care and what other things would they be so sure and steady about.

And then Patrick wonders why he’d even wonder such a thing.

The kids watch the scene for long enough until finally they don’t know what to do—and Theodore snickers and whispers: “I _ink_ I can, I _ink_ I can,” to Alexis-Klair, who stifles a giggle.

At this disturbance, David raises a single eyebrow but not his eyes. Stevie lets out a long low whistle once, twice, and on the third time David finally looks up, as if recognizing for the first time that there are other people in the room. He looks over at Stevie, who narrows her eyes and regards him carefully.

“I’ve seen you before, you know,” she says. David nods.

***

Time passes with some generalized chatting among the group, minus David who stays in his own world, focusing his attention on the swirl of smooth ink onto the paper of his journal.

Theodore, Alexis-Klair and Patrick are discussing what each of them did to get detention—or dancing around the topic really, each trying to find out the others’ perceived crimes without revealing their own secrets. Stevie is still being tough and vaguely scary, although she does occasionally participate in the conversation. Or at least she will zero in on one person to make them feel specifically targeted, in a way that is sometimes intimidating but also occasionally flattering.

Like this time, it’s Alexis-Klair.

“So, what’s your deal?” she asks. Before Alexis-Klair can even consider how to answer that, Stevie follows up with: “You’re pretty. What’s that like?”

“Umm. Oh,” Alexis says, thrown off guard. It isn’t the question she expected. “I’m— I mean— _yes I am_ —but I mean…you’re, like, pretty too, though. You know that?” Stevie grins. She does know.

“Oh. You do know.”

“Well, yeah, I’m pretty…amazing,” Stevie laughs. Her eyes flick between Alexis-Klair and Patrick. “So. So. Sooooo. Are you two like boyfriend/girlfriend?” she leers a bit. “Steady dates? Loooo-vers?”

“No!” says Patrick a little too vehemently and Alexis-Klair shoots him a dirty look on principle.

“Oh you wish. Shut up,” she says to him, shaking her head. “Yeah no. We’re _barely_ friends, or well we’ve been going to the same parties since junior high. We kind of know each other. That’s all.” Alexis-Klair suddenly remembers Patrick is the one who dates Rachel Meyer, the quiet girl in her econ class. Well, she thinks they’re together but isn’t sure.

Alexis-Klair turns away from Patrick and is caught by Stevie’s piercing gaze. She finds herself pinned by those honey-brown eyes deeply grooved into a suspicious squint. The longer they regard one another, the more Alexis-Klair almost convinces herself she can see softness peeking out from beneath Stevie’s hard edge. Alexis-Klair parts her lips slightly and Stevie exhales slowly, audibly. Theodore pulls out his textbook to look at the invertebrate section but now can’t decide whether to pretend he is or isn’t watching this wordless exchange.

Feeling overwhelmed by Stevie’s intensity, Alexis-Klair looks over at Theodore and gives her head another little shake.

“Huh,” Stevie says, turning her sharp attention to Theodore. “Okay, punny boy. Why don’t you go close that door,” indicating the library door that Mr. Schitt insisted must remain open at all times, “…so we can have ourselves a real party? Get _crazy_?” 

Back in his private row, David has some kind of reaction to her phrasing and shoots Stevie a glare. “What?” she mouths at him. He moves his head slowly side to side, as if to chastise her.

“Okay, okay,” she concedes. “Get _wild_ then?” His eyebrows descend a micro level and his expression relaxes into the slightest smirk of a smile. Patrick—who has been sneaking occasional looks to see if he can catch David’s eye— frowns when he notices this moment between Stevie and David. Alexis-Klair seems to be avoiding looking to the back row at all.

“Mr. Schitt said the door is supposed to remain open. And that there shouldn’t be any monkey business. Which if you consider the fact that he didn’t like any of my other animal puns, is completely _bananas…”_

As Theodore mumbles a few more monkey jokes quietly to himself, Stevie goes to the front of the room, pulls out a large screw that is securing the heavy door, and it bangs shut. She dives back to her seat and Schitt comes angrily through the door a moment later.

“Godddddamnnnnit, why is that door closed?” He zeroes in on Stevie immediately. 

No one says anything. Stevie shrugs. “We’re not supposed to move.”

Roland challenges Alexis-Klair. “Why?” 

“We were just sitting here, like we’re supposed to,” she says calmly. Stevie raises her eyebrows. She hadn’t actually expected the golden princess to cover for her.

“Who closed that door?” he demands. 

“I think a screw fell out of it,” Stevie responds. Roland glares at her and then at them all.

“It just closed, sir,” Patrick adds. Stevie’s lips are a flat line as she nods her approval. She hadn’t expected that from Mr. Baseball either.

Roland marches to the back row where David sits alone with his journal.

“Who?” he asks, pounding his fist on the desk in front of him and almost spilling the bottle of ink. David raises his eyes to meet Roland’s, lets out a low growl and bares his teeth. Roland backs away.

“He doesn’t speak, sir,” offers Theodore. Alexis-Klair smiles and looks around a little nervously.

“Give me that screw,” Roland demands of Stevie.

“I don’t have it,” she says. “Screws fall out all the time. The world’s an imperfect place.”

“Excuse me, sir, why would anyone want to _steal_ a _screw_?” Alexis-Klair asks.

“Watch it, young lady,” snaps Schitt. He spends a little time trying to prop open the door but soon realizes that is pointless. 

“It’s far too heavy...s _ir_ ,” Stevie says in a falsely helpful tone.

He turns to Stevie. “Look, you’re not fooling anybody. The next screw that falls out is going to be you!”

“Eat glass,” Stevie mutters, looking down, unbuckling and rebuckling her boot.

“What was that? What did you say to me?”

She raises her chin, looks him dead in the eye and with all the venom she has, spits out: “EAT! GLASS!”

“You just bought yourself another Saturday, missy.”

“Like I care,” she responds, staring him down like a viper ready to strike.

“You just bought one more right there.”

“Well, I’m free the Saturday after that. Beyond that, I’m gonna have to check my calendar app.”

“Good! Because it’s gonna be filled. We can keep going! You want another one? Say the word. Instead of going to prison, you can come here. Are you through?”

“No,” she says defiantly.

“That’s another one. I’m doing society a favor.”

“So?”

“That’s another one right there. I’ve got you for the rest of your life if you don’t watch it. You want another?”

“Yes.”

“You got it! You got another one right there.”

Alexis-Klair can’t help herself from pleading with Stevie to “cut it out,” mouthing “stahhp.” Theodore nods in agreement. Patrick scrunches his face and looks concerned. Even David seems to be listening to the exchange now, although his face shows no expression.

“Are you _through_?” Schitt asks.

“Not. Even. Close,” she practically spits at him.

“You got another one.”

“You think I give a shit?” Stevie snarls. They stare at one another. Stevie starts to come out of her white-hot burst of anger and begins calculating how many Saturdays she’s losing. Then she translates that into how many weekends she won’t be able to help out at the motel and how disappointed her aunt will be that she can’t rely on Stevie while she faces chemo.

 _Shit, he got to her again._ Stevie inhales sharply and forces her lips closed.

“How many is that?” she asks.

“Seven,” Theodore pipes up. “That’s seven, including the one where you asked whether Joe Exotic knows he raids his wardrobe.”

“Eight,” corrects Roland.

“Sorry, sir, it’s seven. Unless you don’t want to include the Tiger King one because you were _lion.”_

Schitt flips his head around so fast to evil-eye the boy that his own mullet goes flying. “Okay. Did you want some, too, Theodore?”

“No. Oh, no sir,” he says, biting back the next pun on his tongue and thinking about what his mother would have to say about more detention.

“Okay then. I say eight, it’s eight Saturdays. I’ve got you, Stevie Budd, for the next two months. Unless you have something else particularly smart to say?” Roland places his palms flat on the table and leans in towards her.

Stevie looks down at her lap, shakes her head imperceptibly.

“Didn’t think so. You should know by now. This is my school and you’re gonna play by my rules.”

***

Following the Stevie/Roland throwdown, something shifts in the air. The group feels a bit less like a gathering of individual strangers and more like a gang of prisoners united against a common enemy. Now that the door is closed and Mr. Schitt is firmly on the other side, the kids start to speak more freely. They get up from their chairs and wander around the library, messing around with the books, checking out the aquarium, coming together in twos and threes—all except David who stays seated at his table, focused on his journal.

After Patrick has short chats with Alexis-Klair and Theodore, and not the worst interaction with Stevie, he makes his way over to David, trying to think of something to gain his attention. 

“Hey,” he says softly.

David keeps his head down but raises his eyes.

“Hi,” he whispers back.

“I’m Patrick, by the way. Patrick Brewer.” He considers going for a handshake but at the last minute shoves both hands deep into his front pockets and rocks back and forth a bit on his heels. Nervousness is not his normal reaction when he’s just trying to make a new friend but there is something about David that is different. Really different.

David’s eyes skim Patrick from the top of his head down to his toes, taking in his snugly fitting jeans and soft-looking blue hoodie. For the first time all day, Patrick sees a hint of an expression on David’s face. He’s still guarded but he’s also _maybe_ checking Patrick out.

Patrick feels a warm wave rush over him. It’s not an unwelcome sensation but he’s not really sure what it is about this new guy that has him so interested—or rattled. Meeting new people is usually easy for Patrick. He’s got plenty of friends on the baseball team and in theater club. One of the things Rachel always used to complain about was that he was always spending time with his buddies rather than his girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend.

“Hi David. I’m Patrick,” David says breathily. They both look surprised. A smile pulls at Patrick’s cheeks and he can’t hold it back. David, reddening, stammers, “I— I mean. I just called you David, which that, that’s not your name.” It’s the most Patrick has heard of David’s voice and it sounds light and lilting, like gentle music. He’d been thinking it would be rougher, with more of an edge to match the all-black wardrobe and knitted eyebrows.

 _Beautiful_. The thought dances at the edge of his conscious mind. _Beautiful voice, beautiful face… Err, what?_

“It’s okay,” he says. To David. And to himself.

“I got you, David. You’re new in Schitt’s Creek, right? I mean not brand-new-new, but newish? I think I might’ve noticed you before today…in the halls…”

David looks up at Patrick, and then down at his journal. He nods. He frowns. He shrugs. “I guess.” Patrick feels off-balance and zeroes in on the book in front of David.

“Huh. So it kind of looks like you are creating something special there, David. Can I—?”

David hesitates a moment, then slides his journal around so that Patrick can see. He has apparently written a couple of paragraphs of his essay—but each one is more than just a collection of sentences; it’s a work of art. Every letter is extensively calligraphed with elegant turns and spidery flourishes and there are vivid, detailed illustrations in the margins. Patrick can’t even focus on what the words say because he’s so blown away by the visual impact of the page as a whole. It’s almost like looking at an illustrated manuscript in an ancient language. It’s like nothing Patrick has ever seen.

“This is incredible, David. You’re an artist.”

“Oh. Ah. Hm. It’s nothing. Doodles.”

“This? _This_ is not nothing,” Patrick says. “I’d love to see more if you would let me.” His fingers trace along the edges of the leather journal, as if they would like to work their way closer to David but don’t dare. David looks like he’s going to smile but then swallows it at the last minute. Patrick feels like he might say almost anything to get David to keep talking to him, to keep those dark eyes on him, to maybe coax out that smile.

He’s ready to try—to say—to— _something_.

“Well,” he begins. “In the interest of us spending the whole day stuck in the library together, I kind of want to come clean about something...” David looks up at him and narrows his eyes.

At that moment, Mr. Schitt re-enters. The clock on the wall reads 11:30.

“Okay, kids, time for lunch. Hope you brought food. You get 30 minutes.”

Stevie mentions that they have nothing to drink with their lunches and after a bit of back-and-forth, Patrick and David are chosen to make a journey to the soft drink machine in the teacher’s lounge to bring back beverages to their classmates.

“Enjoy yourselves, boyyyysssss,” Stevie calls out. She gives Patrick an exaggerated wink. David shoots her a withering look.

The two walk side by side down the hall, leaving the rest of the group behind in the library. David is back to not making eye contact or speaking with Patrick as they travel the length of the hallway.

“So. What’s your poison?” Patrick asks, hoping to engage David, to recreate the moment in the library. David looks at the ground and says nothing. He seems to be withdrawn back into his protective shell.

“What do you like to drink?” No answer. David strides a bit ahead of Patrick with his long legs, as if gathering cans of Sprite might be his life’s calling.

“David?”

“Mmm. Oh. Just. Whiskey or whatever,” he says offhand, over his shoulder.

“ _Whiskey?_ Huh. When do you drink whiskey?”

“Whennnever.”

“A lot?”

“Tons.” David shrugs.

“Is that why you’re here today?”

“Why are _you_ here?” David challenges Patrick, looking at him directly for the first time. Patrick feels smaller under his gaze. As much as he’s been hoping to get David’s attention all morning, now that he has it, he kind of wishes those dark eyes were looking elsewhere instead of boring into him, seeking out a truth Patrick isn’t quite ready to know himself.

They stop walking and David watches as Patrick backs up, bending one foot and propping it against the wall. His casual stance is open and friendly. David is careful to stay tight and contained, arms crossed, holding himself together.

_Patrick._

_Cute jock who is obviously trying to get his attention._

_Why?_

David’s body tenses.

It’s not like it’s something he hasn’t been through before. Kids trying to buddy up to him, pretending to be his friend, when they just want an invite to his family’s summer place or to meet Shawn Mendes or something… _else_. Everyone wants something and David gives. At his old school, he lost track of how many of them used him in different ways, then laughed behind his back. Under his dark designer armor, David’s always been a bit tender, a bit bizarre. The poor rich basket case. Never quite in step with everyone else.

Of course, they laugh. They always laugh.

But David doesn’t want to be the joke at this new school. And if no one gets close enough to know him, no one can get close enough to laugh at him, or hurt him. No one means no one—including this earnest-seeming boy with puppy-dog eyes.

David adopts his best look of nonchalance with a touch of fuck-you-very-much and waits for Patrick’s reply. Patrick looks like he is torn between engaging more with David and not wanting to reveal too much of himself.

“Umm. Me, I’m here today because everyone thinks they know me,” he says in response to David’s question. “And when they see me do something they don’t understand…uh well, my coach and my dad—they don’t want me to blow my ride. I get treated differently because Coach thinks I’m a winner. I’m not a winner because I want to be one…I’m a winner because I make everyone happy, perfect son, good student, baseball MVP. Kinda like a seal performing tricks. I do what they tell me to do and I get a fish. Yeah. That’s about how involved I am in what’s happening to me.”

“Oh.” David scrutinizes Patrick. “Oh yeah? That’s _very_ _interesting_. Now why don’t you tell me why you’re really here.”

If it’s David’s intention to push Patrick back with his words, he succeeds. Patrick feels slapped and reacts accordingly. “I—oh. I—forget it,” he mumbles.

They continue in a chilly silence to the teacher’s lounge, get the drinks, and head back to the library. The thread of something that Patrick thought was starting to be woven between them has snapped. He isn’t sure why. Nor can he tell, exactly, why it makes him feel so empty. But that seems to be how David wants it.

***

Lunch is mostly uneventful. Out of her Prada bag, Alexis-Klair produces a bamboo bento box with sushi, edamame, and seaweed which she proceeds to eat with chopsticks while the others look on. There is a moment when Stevie, whose lunch seems to consist of beef jerky and iced coffee in a can, teases Alexis-Klair about her lunch and then moments later swipes a California roll, smears it liberally with wasabi, pops it in her mouth. “Mmmm,” she says, eyes on Alexis-Klair.

Theodore has a traditional PB&J with the crusts cut off by his mom. Patrick pulls out several ham sandwiches, pieces of fruit, an entire bag of pretzels, three chocolate brownies, and a huge bottle of Gatorade. David sips an unflavored seltzer water that came from the vending machine.

Patrick leans back in his chair and whispers, “Hey, David, are you hungry? Do you want to share some of mine?” David shakes his head but his eyes betray him as he looks over the huge amount of food. Patrick nudges a sandwich, a banana and a brownie back to him. “Come on, take it.”

“Yes, thank you,” David whispers gratefully to the table. Patrick smiles. At least it’s something he can offer.

As lunch finishes up, Stevie plops herself in the chair next to David and whispers conspiratorially, “Hey, I need to go get something in my locker. You wanna come with?”

In a very small voice, he answers “no.”

“Oh. But see, I think you dooo,” she says in a gruff tone. “Let’s go. I wanna talk to you.”

David’s eyes flutter up into his head in an elaborate eye roll.

“Okay.”

***

It turns out that David and Stevie aren’t able to just leave the library for a sojourn down the hall without a lot of questions from the others.

“Exactly where are you going?” Alexis-Klair asks Stevie as the two of them make their way stealthily towards the door, watching to see if Roland is looking their way.

Stevie glances at Alexis-Klair and then looks amusedly at Theodore, who is intently watching them. “I have places to be and some things to locate in my locker.”

“Oh? What things?” Alexis-Klair asks. But Stevie just shrugs.

“Well I guess you could all come but you’d probably just slow me down.” 

At that, the rebellious streak in each of them is awakened and they find themselves sneaking down the hall together as a group. They walk in a double line, Alexis-Klair and Stevie leading and whispering to one another, with occasional arm touching. Theodore and Patrick fall in behind them, with Theodore keeping his eyes pinned on the girls. Patrick keeps glancing over his shoulder at David, who trudges several feet behind them.

“Hey,” Theodore whispers to Patrick. “What’s the point in going to Stevie’s locker?”

“Ya got me,” Patrick tosses back.

“This is so stupid. Why do you think— why are we risking getting caught?” Theodore wonders aloud.

“Dunno.”

“So then what are we doing?”

“Look,” Patrick says, exasperated, verging on fed up. “Ask me one more question and I’m gonna…” He clenches his fists and glares hard. He’s already been asking himself all these questions and he really doesn’t need to hear the contents of his head echoed back by this brainy nerd. 

Theodore steps back in a defensive posture, his smile gone.

“Hey,” David whispers and Patrick whips his head back around to meet his gaze. “Hey, don’t,” he warns softly. David lays a hand on Patrick’s shoulder and he immediately relaxes.

“Sorry, man,” Patrick mutters a sheepish reply to Theodore, feeling like a jerk.

“Sorry,” he says again to David. David nods.

The group stops at Stevie’s locker and when she opens it, all manner of shit begins to tumble out. “Ew, you slob!” Alexis-Klair teases before she can stop herself, once again patting Stevie’s arm playfully. Stevie’s tough look doesn’t last long and she lets out a husky laugh. She reaches into the locker and pulls out an unmistakable bag of pot and some rolling papers. “Oh well hello,” Alexis-Klair says mischievously.

“Wait, umm,” Theodore says, nervously resorting to a string of puns. “Is this why they call you Stevie _Bud_? Shouldn’t having us all come to get your drugs have been a _joint_ decision? If Schitt catches us, we’re definitely going down for _high crimes_ …”

“Shh shh,” Alexis-Klair. “It’s okay, Ted.” She pats his arm this time. _Ted?_ Theodore thinks to himself. She double-winks him.

“Wha— But— Do you approve of this?” Theodore asks Patrick and David, who are now standing side by side. David shrugs and Patrick looks at David, then shrugs. Outnumbered, Theodore says nothing more.

***

Getting back to the library proves trickier than anticipated as they notice the school custodian is now cleaning the hall they just came down and they will need to find an alternate route back without alerting Mr. Schitt.

“We’ll cross through the lab and then we’ll double back,” Stevie says confidently. They all follow but Patrick begins to worry.

“You’d better be right,” he warns her. “If Schitt cuts us off, we’re all dead. And I can’t risk my scholarship for this kind of crap.”

Suddenly they see the top of Roland’s mullet as he creeps down another hall. They flatten themselves against the lockers so he can’t see them. They run down various halls and keep seeing him wandering around. Their plans get screwed up continually and they begin to argue over the best route back to avoid him.

“Wait! Hold it! Hold it!” hisses Stevie. “We have to go through the cafeteria.”

“No, the activities hall,” says Patrick.

“Hey, Sporto, you don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Stevie.

“No. _You_ don’t know what _you’re_ talking about,” he retorts. “We’re going this way. We’re through listening to you.”

Patrick starts running in the opposite direction, with David quietly and quickly moving behind him. Theodore follows. Finally, so do Alexis-Klair and Stevie. They all run full-out until they come up to a hallway closed with a locked iron gate.

“Ugh!” Patrick says, “Fuck!”

“Why didn’t you listen to Stevie?” Alexis-Klair says accusingly to Patrick. “Now, we’re all screwed. How could you be so thoughtless, so selfish?”

“Hahhh!” David shouts, for the first time all day focused on Alexis-Klair. “You! Shhhhut up. I mean—that’s, that’s…that’s soooo rich, coming from you, princess. Just. Unbelievable. YOU are calling someone else…Thoughtless? Selfish? _”_

The other four look at David incredulously. He hadn’t seemed to even regard Alexis-Klair all day and now he’s unloaded all of this stuff on her. She looks shocked and on the verge of tears. Stevie and Theodore both move slightly in front of her in a protective stance. David looks disgusted and turns away. Patrick just stands with his mouth wide open.

Stevie, realizing the situation they still find themselves in, recovers her wits first. “Nope. Not everyone is screwed,” she says. “Just me.” She tucks the baggie of weed into the pocket of Alexis-Klair’s miniskirt. “Get back to the library, you guys.” She looks pointedly at David. “Together. All of you.”

Stevie runs in the other direction and starts to loudly sing-shout an old song from the 80s that Aunt Maureen liked to play in the car when she was feeling especially feisty.

“When I’m out walking, I strut my stuff and I’m so STRUNG OUT,” Stevie calls out at the top of her lungs.

“I’m hi-i-i-i-gh as a kite I just might stop to CHECK. YOU. OUT.” She runs along the line of lockers knocking the locks as she goes to make extra noise.

“Let me go on, like a blister in the sun. Let me go O-O-O-N. Big hands…”

The other four rush back to the library as Roland begins to pursue the sounds of Stevie’s butchering of Violent Femmes lyrics. He can’t help himself from humming along to the tune as he zeroes in on her location.

“I know you’re the one,” he whispers. 

_Finally. He’s got the criminal this time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [8jodaiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/8jodaiko/pseuds/8jodaiko) for their unbelievable help and patience and encouragement. And for my other dear fic writer friends who are an amazing source of inspiration and support. I adore you all so.


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